am” but discarded the idea. It was so true—he would be very different in another decade—and once he might have recognized the truth in it. He might have laughed. Now she wasn’t sure.
Truth be told, part of what nagged at her now was a fear that he’d stopped calling not out of forgetfulness or busyness but as an intentional act, that he’d lumped her in with all the rest, all those he thought were shells of beings, committing or acceding to violence in their half-sleep; those he disdained; those he was sure he would never resemble. And though she knew they could survive this, the two of them, and that he would mature and pass through it, still it hurt, and it worried her not to know what he was thinking.
Three stops from her own, she heard a panhandler giving his spiel at the other end of the train. “If you ain’t got it, I understand, ’cause I ain’t got it. But if you have a dime, a quarter, a piece of fruit . . .”
She didn’t normally give to panhandlers—there were too many of them, and who knew what they used the money for? She had her own favorite charities. But now, because she was worried about her son and because she knew Jonas would pull something out of his pocket to give to this man if he were here, she fished into her bag for a dollar.
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy next to her said with a grin as he stretched out a leg to reach into his own jeans pocket. “We def got to give it up for Sonny Hirt.”
“That’s his name?”
“Huh?” The boy removed one earphone and let it dangle over his shoulder.
“His name is Sunny Hurt? Really?” she asked. “That sounds like a contradiction.”
The boy looked at her curiously. “You never seen Sonny before? He’s an institution, yo.”
The panhandler shuffled forward. He had warm eyes. Carol thought of this man’s mother, who’d surely doted on him when he was a baby, had probably worried herself sick when he was an adolescent. Had he been wild? Done drugs, cut school? Had that been when everything began going wrong? Or had it been much later, after he’d had a job, maybe even a wife? Something had fallen apart. Maybe distrust of the system, not unlike what Jonas felt.
At her stop, she emerged from the train to see two more officers; this was a lot for a Sunday, and she wondered if someone special were in town, visiting the UN or dining with the mayor. Police officers barely looked at her now—middle-aged, middle-class white women were virtually invisible to them, off the radar, unlikely to be criminals and too old for flirting. When she was young and running around with Jake, it was a different matter. They’d both looked free and flamboyant in those days, they’d looked like trouble, and to top it off, they were always laughing. Carol used to feel police officers following her and Jake with their eyes, suspicious, waiting from them to slip up somehow.
Jake. There it was, the thought she’d been avoiding, because she knew. It was time for Jake. This worry about Jonas was too strong, and she needed to share it with Jonas’s father. Jake used to be a little intuitive, and so, who knew, maybe he’d felt something, too. Or maybe Jonashad confided something in him, although that would be a switch. Still, every other path had dead-ended. As soon as she got home, she’d fix herself a cup of tea but also pour something stronger so she could take a sip if Jake became obnoxious. And then she’d call him. It was time to talk to Jake about her worries over the best thing they’d ever done together.
NEW YORK: 2:58 P.M.
MECCA: 10:58 P.M.
In the back office of his gallery, Jake’s laptop was open to Craig’s List, missed connections on the subway, his favorite frivolous reading.
No. 5 Train to Bowling Green: You were wearing light brown boots, and something green on top. I was the guy with glasses. We sort of exchanged glances through the people standing in the subway car. You were awfully cute and I don’t see many gals with your sort
Truth be told, part of what nagged at her now was a fear that he’d stopped calling not out of forgetfulness or busyness but as an intentional act, that he’d lumped her in with all the rest, all those he thought were shells of beings, committing or acceding to violence in their half-sleep; those he disdained; those he was sure he would never resemble. And though she knew they could survive this, the two of them, and that he would mature and pass through it, still it hurt, and it worried her not to know what he was thinking.
Three stops from her own, she heard a panhandler giving his spiel at the other end of the train. “If you ain’t got it, I understand, ’cause I ain’t got it. But if you have a dime, a quarter, a piece of fruit . . .”
She didn’t normally give to panhandlers—there were too many of them, and who knew what they used the money for? She had her own favorite charities. But now, because she was worried about her son and because she knew Jonas would pull something out of his pocket to give to this man if he were here, she fished into her bag for a dollar.
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy next to her said with a grin as he stretched out a leg to reach into his own jeans pocket. “We def got to give it up for Sonny Hirt.”
“That’s his name?”
“Huh?” The boy removed one earphone and let it dangle over his shoulder.
“His name is Sunny Hurt? Really?” she asked. “That sounds like a contradiction.”
The boy looked at her curiously. “You never seen Sonny before? He’s an institution, yo.”
The panhandler shuffled forward. He had warm eyes. Carol thought of this man’s mother, who’d surely doted on him when he was a baby, had probably worried herself sick when he was an adolescent. Had he been wild? Done drugs, cut school? Had that been when everything began going wrong? Or had it been much later, after he’d had a job, maybe even a wife? Something had fallen apart. Maybe distrust of the system, not unlike what Jonas felt.
At her stop, she emerged from the train to see two more officers; this was a lot for a Sunday, and she wondered if someone special were in town, visiting the UN or dining with the mayor. Police officers barely looked at her now—middle-aged, middle-class white women were virtually invisible to them, off the radar, unlikely to be criminals and too old for flirting. When she was young and running around with Jake, it was a different matter. They’d both looked free and flamboyant in those days, they’d looked like trouble, and to top it off, they were always laughing. Carol used to feel police officers following her and Jake with their eyes, suspicious, waiting from them to slip up somehow.
Jake. There it was, the thought she’d been avoiding, because she knew. It was time for Jake. This worry about Jonas was too strong, and she needed to share it with Jonas’s father. Jake used to be a little intuitive, and so, who knew, maybe he’d felt something, too. Or maybe Jonashad confided something in him, although that would be a switch. Still, every other path had dead-ended. As soon as she got home, she’d fix herself a cup of tea but also pour something stronger so she could take a sip if Jake became obnoxious. And then she’d call him. It was time to talk to Jake about her worries over the best thing they’d ever done together.
NEW YORK: 2:58 P.M.
MECCA: 10:58 P.M.
In the back office of his gallery, Jake’s laptop was open to Craig’s List, missed connections on the subway, his favorite frivolous reading.
No. 5 Train to Bowling Green: You were wearing light brown boots, and something green on top. I was the guy with glasses. We sort of exchanged glances through the people standing in the subway car. You were awfully cute and I don’t see many gals with your sort
Similar Books
